


Crave

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_30snapshots, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5x14 coda: the aftermath of the panic room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crave

It's quiet in the basement when Dean comes back inside. Castiel is nowhere to be seen, and Dean thinks for a terrifying minute that Sam is gone. Again.

That thought has him in motion down the last three stairs and across the basement to the door of Bobby's panic room. He opens the little slotted window and presses his face to the metal, cool against his forehead.

"Sam?"

Sam is crouched against the far wall, and Dean can see his back moving as he breathes. "Dean?"

Dean almost closes the window again, but the sound of Sam's voice stops him. It's ragged, but sure. Sam's not in agony, not writhing on the floor, not screaming. He just sounds tired.

"Hey," Dean says, and clears his throat. If Sam could see him he'd probably know what Dean's been up to-- namely, falling apart in the yard-- but Sam is still across the room, and Dean is behind the iron door. "You doin' okay?"

Sam nods, shrugs his shoulders, slides down onto the floor. His long, long legs stretch out in front of him, and his heads lolls back against the wall. He doesn't look at Dean. "Think so."

"You want me to let you out?"

Sam shakes his head, and that's how Dean knows it's over.

"No," Sam says. "Think I should stay overnight?" His tone lifts into a question at the end, and it catches Dean off guard.

"You need anything?" he asks, instead of answering.

"Is there water?" Sam lifts his head, finds Dean's eyes across the panic room. There's a covered jug on the table beside the door, and Dean picks it up. Last time they left water in here for Sam, and he knocked it on the floor. Dean doesn't feel like thinking about last time.

"Dean, don't--" Sam starts when Dean unlocks the door.

"Shut up, man," Dean grumbles, "You're fine. If you want, I'll leave, but I could totally take you right now."

Sam coughs out a laugh, and accepts the jug and plastic cup from Dean. Dean slides down the wall next to his brother, close enough that his boot nudges Sam's knee and his shoulder is pressing Sam's, and he can feel the tension drain out of Sam's body.

"Dean," Sam says finally, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His face is clean, thank god, and his eyes are clear, but Dean doesn't want to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Stalling. Avoiding. Dean wonders how much Sam heard of Famine's poisonous whispered narration, how much he really understands how twisted up inside Dean feels most times, how long he knew Famine was getting to him before he said anything.

Sam sighs, scrubs his hand through his stupid hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "Jesus, you know what. Getting all fucked up. Giving in."

"Sam," Dean says patiently, "let's go over for just a second what happened. You told me what was going on; you stepped down when you knew you had to; you were tempted and indulged, and you used your powers for good. And _then_ you asked to be put in here. If anything, that says you're learning some responsibility, Sammy-boy."

Sam shoves him with his shoulder. "Jerk."

Dean is silent, staring down at his hands. They seem foreign and unfamiliar, like he isn't even in his own body. Sam's hand coming into his line of vision and resting on his thigh is a lot more familiar.

"You okay?"

Dean holds his breath. No, he's not. In a big way, he's not. But it's not like Sam is going to be able to do anything about it, not really. And it's not like denying it is going to do any good either.

"No."

"Dean--"

"Can we not?"

Sam's sigh is a little more concerned than put out this time, and his hand squeezes, warm and firm, on Dean's leg. "All right," he says. "But I'm not going anywhere."

Dean turns his head, and Sam is looking at him, all bright eyes and puppy dog want. He sets down the cup in his other hand and brings it up slowly to touch Dean's cheek, and Dean doesn't flinch away. He needs this. He wants this. He hates that it only happens when they're fucked up and in pain and needing some kind of creature comfort, and never when they just feel like it. He wants to sleep in Sam's bed, and touch his brother in the daylight, and get a goddamn hug once in a while, but that's not the way it works.

He tries to tell Sam sometimes ( _I'll stay in tonight_ ), but Sam isn't great at picking up hints, and Dean's not about to say it outright.

So he takes what he can get, and he leans into Sam's palm, closing his eyes. He should be the one comforting here, shouldn't he? Sam's coming out of relapse, for fuck's sake, and he's the one begging silently for Sam's hands on him.

Sam pushes off the wall and swings his leg over Dean's thighs. He settles down, warm and too heavy, and tilts Dean's face up with his fingertips, cupping his jaw, rubbing his thumbs across Dean's temples. Dean's lips part without his bidding, and Sam's gaze snaps down. Dean watches him inhale, and then Sam leans in and kisses him.

It's gentle at first, tentative, and Dean opens his mouth further, moans into the kiss. Get going, Sammy. Sam licks his way in, tilting his head and cradling the base of Dean's skull in one big hand. Dean presses forward, hands coming up to slide into Sam's hair, and Sam sounds like he's dying. He pulls back a fraction, enough to whisper, "Dean," between them, and Dean catches him again, kissing and kissing like he can't get enough, starving for it.

Dean's head jerks back, hits the iron wall behind him, and he hisses. "Shit."

"Fuck, Dean, what was--?"

"Sorry, I'm okay."

"Should we... not? Do this?" Dean can hear the uncertainty and fear in his voice-- _don't turn me away, not like this, please, Dean._ He shakes his head, pulls Sam in again.

"No, we should definitely do this."

Sam is abruptly off his lap and hauling Dean up into his arms. He manhandles Dean across to the narrow bed and its prison pallet and knocks him down onto it, climbing on top of him. Dean can feel how hard he is, see the thick ridge of Sam's cock in his jeans, and he reaches up and tugs Sam's hips down, snug against his own.

Sam hisses at the contact, kisses Dean's mouth open again, and Dean sucks his tongue in, at the same time pulling Sam's undershirt out of his jeans. He's got his hands on the hot, smooth skin at the small of Sam's back, fingers rubbing over familiar scars, and Sam groans and rolls his hips down into Dean's.

Dean shudders, bucking up, hard and throbbing in his own pants. He gets like this with Sam, loses his mind, all reason, just wants to touch and hold and fuck. He wants Sam's mouth on his skin, wants Sam's hands in his hair, Sam's whole body, everything, everywhere. Fuck.

Sam sits back on Dean's hips and pulls his shirts off and over his head. Dean feels like a magnet and Sam is his north-- hands on Sam's chest, curling up to lick at his neck, suck a mark into his shoulder. Sam's big hands close around Dean's shoulders and press him back into the bed, and the thin pillow isn't enough to protect him from the hard metal bar, but Sam cradles his head with one hand and pops open the button on his jeans with the other.

Dean rids them of their jeans while Sam tugs his t-shirt over his head and falls to kissing the underside of Dean's chin, the soft skin at his throat, licking the edge of the fading handprint on his shoulder. He puts his mouth on Dean's tattoo, tracing the barely-there lines with his tongue, and Dean can feel it in his dick. He rolls his head back, clutching at Sam's sides, and feels Sam smile against his chest.

"That okay?"

"Yeah," Dean hisses, pushing Sam's head down, mashing Sam's mouth into his skin again, and Sam closes around his nipple instead. Dean arches into it, back coming off the bed, and Sam presses him down again, gently. He leaves a trail of kisses too delicate and quiet down Dean's abs, and then his hot mouth closes around the tip of Dean's erection.

He's holding Dean's hips down, so when Dean starts and thrusts he's way ahead of him, keeping him in place and sucking lightly.

Dean's babbling nonsense as Sam goes down on him, saying nothing and everything. Sam's throat opens around the head of his cock, and he squirms. Sam's mouth is open against his pelvis, lips drawn back to protect Dean, and Dean drags his fingers at the corner of his mouth, slick with spit. Sam lifts his head, sucking up Dean's cock, and Dean's wandering fingers find their way to the hollow of Sam's cheek, feeling himself in Sam's mouth. Sam's eyes flutter closed and Dean can feel his moan in his spine.

Sam pulls off, panting, the pulse beating shallow in his throat, and Dean drags his fingers through Sam's hair and breathes. The whole room smells like sex and sweat and them, and Dean stares at the slow-turning fan far above, star-shaped flickers of light.

"Dean," Sam murmurs, "you ready? Can we?"

"Yeah," he replies, glancing down, catching on the smooth curve of Sam's shoulder, the fall of his hair in his eyes. "Are _you_ ready?"

"Get me there," Sam says, crawling up his body. Dean fumbles and finds lube pressed into his hand, and Sam plants both hands on either side of Dean's head. Dean looks up at Sam while he slicks up his fingers, and Sam stares right back, face open, showing every flinch and shudder as Dean presses his first finger in. Dean watches Sam's jaw tense and relax, and he lifts his head up to kiss it. Sam tilts his head, eyes closing, turning into the caress, and Dean digs his teeth in.

Another finger, and he kisses the side of Sam's face, his cheek, temple, forehead, and Sam turns his head back and catches Dean's mouth with his own, kissing deep and thorough, like he doesn't already know the shape of his brother's mouth. The only sound is the blood rushing in Dean's ears and the fast, harsh pant of Sam's breathing, and the slick sound of his fingers moving in Sam's body.

Sam pushes off onto one hand, still propping himself up above Dean, and slides the other underneath Dean's head, rubbing circles at the top of his spine. Dean's breath hitches and he bites Sam's lower lip.

Sam moans, arching his back, as Dean slides a third finger in, and he doesn't let go of the back of Dean's neck. Dean wants to watch his fingers disappearing into Sam's body, but at the same time he wants to turn into the touch, and he can't have both. Sam apparently can reads minds now, though, and he fucks down on Dean's fingers and presses his thumb against the bone of Dean's jaw, intensifying everything.

"Come on, Dean, now," he gasps, and Dean pulls his fingers out. Sam sits back on his heels, fisting his stiff cock with one hand, and splaying the other low on Dean's belly. Dean's hand spreads over Sam's, and then he takes hold of Sam's fingers and pulls him back up, pressing that hand against his cheek. Sam's eyes go soft, lust melting into something uncomfortably close to adoration, and Dean grabs him by the hips instead and lines up, the head of his dick pushing into Sam's open hole.

He grits out a "Fuck!" as he thrusts in, and Sam opens up around him, mouth dropping open around a sigh. Dean pulls Sam's hips down flush, and a ripple runs up Sam's spine. Sam grins down onto him, fingers tightening around his cock. The head of Sam's dick is sticky with pre-come, slick and shiny, and Dean lets go of one hip to rub his thumb there.

Sam jerks, too sensitive, even as his cock visibly stiffens further and his body clamps down on Dean's dick inside him. Dean reaches up and pulls Sam down to him by the back of his neck, pressing Sam's forehead to his, and he rocks up slowly, heels finding purchase on the mattress. Sam gasps, might have been his name, finds the rhythm and rolls his hips down.

They go slow, breathing shallow, kissing every other stroke, and Sam's hand curls around Dean's flank, fingers digging in almost too tight. Dean holds the back of Sam's head, keeping them together, panting into Sam's mouth and swallowing the soft, needy sounds that escape from Sam's throat. Sam's mouth tastes wrong, water and sour copper, but it's not unfamiliar, and Dean knows that he should taste like this, after everything.

Sam turns his face away, gritting his teeth, and Dean spreads his fingers across the back of Sam's head and pulls him back in. He can feel Sam's ass tighten around his cock, feel Sam push his hips back harder. Dean bites Sam's lip, fucking up into him, meeting him, feeling the shuddering of Sam's body drawing him up, up, hotter and tighter and faster.

Sam's going to have bruises on one hip, come morning. Dean's hand slips against his skin, sweaty and slick, and Sam hisses, twisting, as Dean closes that hand instead around his cock.

Dean gets one foot under him and thrusts up hard and Sam's whole body jerks. He groans, "Oh, fuck, Dean," and Dean murmurs, "Sammy," and then Sam's coming, hot and slick over Dean's hand. All his muscles lock down for that first second, tensing, and then he's gasping with every pulse. Dean yanks his head down and kisses him through it, and Sam moans into his mouth as Dean starts to come too, rhythmic pulsing of Sam's body too much to handle.

Sam's pressing kisses to Dean's collarbone when Dean finally relaxes, and he tightens his knees around Dean's hips when Dean tries to roll away.

"Stay," Sam whispers, mouth against Dean's skin. "Don't leave me alone in here."

After a second, Dean says, "Okay," and curls his arms around Sam's shoulders and closes his eyes. A little drunk, fucked out, and miserable, and Sam takes him apart so easy. Sam shifts and winces as Dean slips out of him, but he settles back down on top of him, way too heavy and big for this. He tucks his head under Dean's chin.

"Sammy," Dean says, and he doesn't know where he's going with that.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

"'Kay, Dean."

\---

In the morning, Dean wakes up with Sam pressed up against his side in the too-small bed, Dean's head pillowed on his arm, and he realizes they're being watched.

Cas is standing in the doorway when he sits up, thankfully covered sometime in the night with the pallet's thin blanket. Cas doesn't look the least bit surprised, just tilts his head to the side and says, "Dean, we have work to do."

He turns away and vanishes, up the stairs presumably, but who could say? Dean extracts himself from Sam's arms and pulls on his jeans, and then he jostles the bed. Sam blinks awake, alert in a second.

"Up and at 'em, Sammy," Dean says, on reflex, and Sam nods without smiling. "How you feelin'?"

"Okay," Sam says, sitting up and looking around for his pants "Better."

"Good," Dean says, and tugs his t-shirt over his head, trying not to watch the way Sam's muscles move under his skin, or at the hickey on his neck. Sam unfolds from the bed, shoves his feet into his boots and pulls on his shirt, glances at Dean.

"You?"

Dean shrugs. No better, no worse. He says, "Fine," and knows Sam doesn't believe him.


End file.
